Free for the Asking
by netrat
Summary: The cook and the thief... here's how two of our Heroes, not to forget good old Schultzie, first met. In response to the Word Game Challenge. Complete!


SUMMARY: The cook and the thief. here's how two of our Heroes, not to mention good old Schultzie, met first. In reponse to the Word Game Challenge.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hogan's Heroes - just Sergeants Bradley and Schneider, and I'm not all that fond of them. Williams was taken from the episode "One in Every Crowd". 

_This story is entirely Lauren (the Oboe one)'s and Linda's fault, for generating the Word Game challenge and taking it up respectively. How could I resist? I've used two sentences from the Word Game (the G and S ones, slightly amended) as well as 'Fischers Fritze',  a popular German tongue-twister. This is what I imagine life at Stalag 13 was like before Hogan arrived. I love Newkirk but I don't think the other POWs would take kindly to his antics._

_Thanks to all of you who voted for me in the Papa Bear Awards! I'm honored._

**Free for the Asking**

**by netrat**

When LeBeau stomped into the barracks only one man was there, sitting on the rickety stool with his back to the cold stove and playing solitaire. LeBeau didn't recall his name, but could remember seeing him before - though recognition was triggered more by the deck of cards that never seemed to leave the man' hands, than by his physical appearance. RAF uniforms tended to make their wearers look all alike, even if this soldier seemed slightly older than the other British corporals LeBeau had met.

He went to his locker in the corner, opening it before carefully taking a tin can out from under his sweater where he'd hidden it. His new barracks mate, or so LeBeau assumed, didn't look up from his solitary game. The latest re-shuffling of the prisoners had left LeBeau the only Frenchman in Barracks 2, surrounded by RAF, US Air Force, and the odd stray Russian. He didn't feel at home but then he hadn't, really, ever since he'd crossed the border. He went to grab the matches he'd left lying on top of his other things, and found that they were gone.

He swore under his breath, in French. After all the trouble getting supplies, how was he supposed to cook lovely gourmet food without a fire? _Le Commandant_ had forbidden his guards to distribute matches and firewood, claiming that the "warm weather" was quite enough to keep the prisoners alive. After that, most POWs had decided that they could just as well freeze outdoors, a fact which suited LeBeau. It was hard enough to get the privacy a first-rate chef needed.

His swearing had attracted the RAF corporal's notice, who turned around. "Lookin' for somethin', mate?"

"_Oui_. My matches have disappeared."

The corporal reached into his pocket. "'Ere, take mine." He held them out with a good-natured expression on his face. LeBeau reached for them, then hesitated. The matches looked _exactly_ like his own, but then, anyone in the camp could own French-branded matches. Besides, the locker had been, well, locked.

"I'm Peter", the RAF corporal said casually. "Newkirk."

"Louis LeBeau, Free French Forces", LeBeau responded, which made the other man laugh: "_Fischers Fritze fischt frische Fische_, eh?"

"_Tres_ funny", LeBeau muttered, grabbing the matches without a word of thanks. He was just about to lighten some paper when the door opened and two more prisoners came in, talking loudly among themselves. Private Jack Williams, US Air Force, and Sgt. Hugh Bradley, RAF, had met at Stalag 13 and instantly become friends, probably through a shared interest in bullying others. With a sigh, LeBeau returned the matches. Another opportunity for quiet cooking lost.

"It's freezin' out there!" Williams complained, rubbing his hands, while Bradley was rummaging under his mattress where pretty much every prisoner kept his 'girly magazines' as the Brits used to call them. "Bloody 'ell! Where's my copy of _Maedchen_?" No-one answered.

"You!" The Sergeant, a well-built man about twice the size of LeBeau, came up to the table and grabbed the surprised Newkirk by the lapels of his jacket, forcing him to stand up. "You'd take it, didn't you? Everytime somethin' goes missin', it's always you!"

"Now, Bradley, you see -"

"That's _Sergeant_ Bradley to you! Attention!"

Newkirk straightened up, trying to paste an innocent look on his face and failing miserably. "Them Jerries are bad enough without a thief in our midst!" Williams noted, gleefully stepping nearer.

"I wasn't planning on keeping them, sir. Just practisin' - _sir_", Newkirk added quickly

Sgt. Bradley dismissed the remark with a curt gesture. "I'm reporting you to Schneider. He'll throw you in the cooler after you give back our stuff." 

A look of defiance crossed Newkirk's face. "All right", he muttered. "At least I won't have to see the pair of you there." He walked up to his own locker, opened it and grabbed a handful of things, which he threw on the nearest bunk: magazines, cigarettes, a comb, a bar of soap. Then, searching his pockets, he added a wristwatch. On his way back, he stuffed the matches into LeBeau's hand. "Yours, mate." LeBeau was too surprised to even mutter in French.

"Come on!" Sgt. Bradley shoved Newkirk towards the barracks door. "Let's find Schneider." The three of them stepped out - and paused immediately. Curious, LeBeau went after them.

"Slouches in the Service sink ships, so straighten up!" Sergeant Schneider, the seasoned soldier, was standing in the middle of the compound, speaking sourly to the Stalag's spanking new staff that stood startled before him, seriously sizing up their new staff sergeant. From the looks of it, they weren't enjoying his company all that much. Schneider was an unpleasant sort at the best of times, and the recent string of escape attempts hadn't done anything to improve his humor.

"Goodness gracious!" gasped Williams, gazing and pointing at the great girth of a gluttonous guard who was gorging on a great green Granny Smith apple while listening to Schneider's spiel. "What _is_ that?"

"Looks like a beer barrel", Newkirk offered, but no-one laughed.

"SCHULTZ! What do you think you are doing?" Schneider, who had finally noticed the beer barrel's behaviour, came striding towards the fat corporal with his hands balled into fists. Quickly, the soldier stood at attention with his hands by his side - and the apple, unfortunately, still in his mouth. LeBeau couldn't help thinking of a roasted pig.

"Feeding your fat face again, are you? And who gave you the apple?"

LeBeau wondered about that, too, until he caught sight of a group of young American prisoners lurking on the other side of the compound, near where 'Schultz' was standing. Apparently they'd been in the process of bribing him, probably with what Private Olsen had nicked while on kitchen duty. Fruit didn't make the guards quite as talkative as chocolate or cigarettes did, but the shipment of Red Cross packages was late - again.

Williams clapped his hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "You're lucky Schneider's busy, thief." He grinned. "Don't think we won't be watching you till he's got time, though." With that, he gave Newkirk another shove that made the corporal stumble back against LeBeau.

"Watch it!" LeBeau, pinned against the barracks wall, tried to get the much taller man off him.

"Sorry, mate", Newkirk muttered, trying to regain his balance. The commotion, however, had already caught Schneider's eye.

"What is going on?" Turning away from his unhappy-looking charges, Schneider started to make his way towards Barracks 2. Quickly, the four prisoners backed into the building, but they didn't even have time to shut the door before Schneider yanked the doorknob out of LeBeau's hands. "What is going on?" he shouted again. "You are spying on us, eh? _Spione_!"

"Here we go again", Newkirk muttered. Schneider's paranoia was well-known and had worsened continuously during the last weeks, probably due to all the escape attempts. The sergeant stared at the four prisoners for a moment, then turned and shouted through the open door: "SCHULTZ! Come here right now!"

Looking as if the effort of walking was already too much for the day, Schultz arrived at the barracks panting, quickly swallowing the last bite.  "Search the barracks", Schneider ordered. "See what our spies here are up to. Tunnels and radios, eh?"

"Oh, we're not plotting escape, just your murder", Williams retorted casually. Schneider whirled around as if stung by a hornet. "What? Who -" The prisoners were staring straight ahead. "Who said that?"

"Who said what?" Sgt. Bradley retorted, feigning politeness.

"I didn't hear anything", Williams added. "You're sure you're not hearing voices, Sergeant?"

At this, Schneider became very red in the face and made that growling sound that meant he was about to explode. "Schultz! Search the barracks! If I find anything", he went on, turning towards Williams, "anything at all, the lot of you will be sent to the cooler!"

The prisoners were just standing there, unmoving. So, for that matter, was Schultz.

"What are you waiting for?" Schneider turned on him as soon as he noticed. "Search! Now!"

"_Ja_, Sergeant", the fat corporal said dutifully. His face, round and red, showed the puzzled expression of a child who didn't understand what the grown-ups were talking about. "But what should I be searching for?"

"Anything! Weapons! Tunnels! Radios!" 

Whithering under Schneider's stare, Schultz turned and half-heartedly started tearing the mattresses from the lower bunks. fter that, finding nothing, he started on the top bunks. "Many tunnels up there, you guess?" Williams asked, sneering. 

Meanwhile, Sgt. Bradley, who was closest to the stove, had sat down and yawned. It didn't escape Schneider: "Up with you! _Auf auf auf_! Attention!"

The last bunk was Newkirk's. After a cursory glance, Schultz was about to go lift the next mattress, but suddenly paused and brought forth a small piece of paper. Thinking it an escape plan or message from the underground, Schneider eagerly grabbed it.

"Hey! Give that back!" Newkirk, who'd sidled up to Schneider, tried to snatch it away. Schneider held it up in the air, so everyone could see what it was - a pin-up picture of a grinning redhead.

"That's mine!" Williams pushed LeBeau away to tackle the Englishman. "You lousy thief, you!"

While Schultz tried to separate the fighters by shoving his considerable girth in between them, Schneider was looking almost happy for the first time of the day. "Allies, eh?", he said when the guard had managed to corner Williams, whom Bradley was trying to restrain. "Fighting among yourselves, no wonder you're losing the war!" Newkirk was rubbing his nose, where Williams had landed a blow. The American, in turn, was cursing and blinking as his left eye began to swell shut.

"I'm keeping this", Schneider went on, stuffing the picture into his pocket.

"But Sergeant" - Schultz' red face turned noticably paler under Schneider's glance; still, he ploughed on. "It's not a weapon or a radio, Sergeant -"

"Shut up and continue searching!"

The prisoners were glaring at Schneider while Schultz was starting on the row of lockers. LeBeau suddenly had a bad feeling in his stomach, a feeling which got even worse when Schultz, looking interested for the first time, held up a small tin can for Schneider's inspection.

"A-ha!" Schneider exclaimed triumphantly, after opening it and sniffing. "_Ich wusste es_! That is poison, isn't it? You are trying to poison me!"

LeBeau stifled a groan. Surely even the ignorant _Bosche_ couldn't mistake cinnamon for arsenic!

The fat guard suddenly stuck a finger into the can, held it up to his face and licked it. "Sergeant, this is not poison, it's cinnamon. My wife uses it for apple strudel. Mmh, apple strudel." His face took on a dreamy expression, so child-like that LeBeau almost felt like laughing. _This_ guy was supposed to be part of Hitler's fearsome, elite, super-efficient 'master race'?

"SCHULTZ! Stop drooling!" Schneider stomped his foot to gain the corporal's attention. "Cinnamon, eh? We'll see about that." He put the tin can into his coat pocket. 

LeBeau's temper was rising up until he himself felt like a boiling pot on the stove. The dirty camp in lousy ugly Germany, the ignorant company, the stupid bullying guards - all that was quite enough to make him miserable; but no-one, NO-ONE, would touch his precious cooking supplies!

"Give that back, filthy Bosche!" he snarled.

Schneider might not be a genius, but he knew an insult when he heard it. "You! I'll throw you in the cooler! Bread and water! And at the next word I hear, you'll be shot!" He motioned for the fat guard to grab LeBeau. Schultz' grip was surprisingly gentle, but even so, LeBeau found himself unable to move his hands. He tried to kick the guard, whereupon Schultz' face took on an expression of shocked disappointment.

LeBeau's foul mood was increasing while he was dragged in front of the 'Bald Eagle', as the prisoners had taken to calling their useless, inefficient, monocle-wearing camp Kommandant. However, once he'd received his sentence and heard Schultz' steps retreating from the cell door, he felt himself getting calmer - and tired. He'd been in that camp for way too long. There was a war going on! France needed all the help she could get, and here he was, getting into fights with stupid Bosche who didn't know what cinnamon was!

He lay down on the cot, trying to get some sleep. Just as he had started to doze, however, the key was being turned in the lock once more. Footsteps could be heard. LeBeau opened his eyes.

"Mind your 'ands, mate!" 

'Newkirk', LeBeau realized. Apparently Schneider had stopped raging long enough for Sgt. Bradley and Williams to denounce the thief. He got up and went to the door, standing on his toes so he could look through the little barred window. The RAF corporal gave him a cheerful wave as he was ushered into the cell opposite LeBeau's.

"There you are. Now try to behave. Quarreling amongst yourselves, you should know better!" Unlike Schneider, Schultz sounded more disappointed than gleeful. He turned around and waltzed out, his steps echoing all the way.

"'Ey, Louie!" LeBeau turned his head to see Newkirk looking through his own little window, grinning. The Englishman held up a small tin can. "Look what I've got."

LeBeau's annoyance at being called 'Louie' was quickly replaced by amazement. "Where did you -"

"Nicked it from ol' Glass-Eye's desk while he was busy list'ning to me sins", Newkirk replied, then added with a shrug. "Thought I might as well put me talents to some use for once." He opened the can and sniffed it. "Wish it _were_ poison, though. We could use it."

"Poison Schneider?" LeBeau retorted contemptuously. "I will use this to make the best apple strudel you've ever eaten. _that_ will be a victory over the Bosche."

Newkirk patted his jacket, then drew out two cigars from the insides of his flight shirt. "To victory," he spoke a toast, holding the cigars out between the window bars. "I'd offer you one, mate, but." He gestured towards the corridor that seperated their cells.

"Are these Klink's cigars?"

The Englishman nodded while rummaging in his pocket for matches that LeBeau was quite sure by now weren't his own. Soon, he was smoking contentedly.

Something stirred in LeBeau's memory. "What did you mean when you told Bradley that you were 'practising'?"

Newkirk's face lit up at the question. "I'm a magician", he explained. "Behold Peter the Great!"

"Wasn't he a dead Russian czar?" LeBeau questioned, earning himself a reproving look.

"The hand fools the eye! Neither lock nor safe will withstand the nimble fingers of the magnificent Peter Newkirk!" the Englishman went on, all the while underlining his words with grand gestures. He paused. Then: "Need any help getting supplies for your cooking?" 

"_Oui_, I do", LeBeau admitted. An idea was already forming in his mind. The new corporal, Schultz, clearly knew something of culinary delights. _Let's see if we can't win him over to our side_. Being a prisoner of war was still bad enough but, LeBeau reckoned, a little strudel would make life at Stalag 13 a lot more bearable.

What do you think? Please review!


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